


time, mystical time

by sleepingbeast



Category: IT, IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Fix-It, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Transphobia, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Sapphic Beverly Marsh, Temporary Character Death, Trans Male Character, Trans Male Richie Tozier, Underage Drinking, Underage Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:08:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25540339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepingbeast/pseuds/sleepingbeast
Summary: “R-Richie,” Bill says pointedly, snapping him out of whatever spiral he’s beginning to go through. “You’re our friend and we love you. We don’t care about that shit. You’re Richie and our best friend and we’ll do anything for you.” He turns back to everyone else, still staring at Richie with dumb expressions. “Right guys?”“Right,” Mike says, “You’re still Richie who doesn’t shut up ever.”Stan laughs at that. “I’m more concerned about your fucking motor mouth and the bullshit you spout constantly than about what’s going on in your pants, Tozier.”
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 3
Kudos: 136





	time, mystical time

**Author's Note:**

> content warnings: dead naming, vaguely mentioned child abuse, vaguely mentioned csa
> 
> stephen king is 100% wrong and stan and eddie should be alive.

**1989**

Richie is haunted by It.

He can’t make sense of it, he’s not sure what it is but there’s something so visceral, so real about the taunts he hears in his nightmares. It's all he hears, that oddly pitched voice that makes him feel like nails are endlessly dragged on a chalkboard, that makes him feel so fucking unsafe like he's about to get eaten or ripped to shreds at any moment.

_Rachel_ it says.

Over and over.

_Rachel_

_Rachel_

_Your friends won’t like you if they knew._

_Rachel_

_Disgusting little girl playing pretend_

_They're gonna hate you when they find out_

_Rachel_

_They'll fucking kill you, Rachel_

_Rachel._

He wakes up in a cold sweat each night.

His name is Richie. He likes The Clash and The Smiths and the cigarettes he and Beverly steal from her dad.

-

When he feels a cramp in the middle of Social Studies he realizes he’s absolutely fucked. He checks the secret pocket of his backpack under the guise of looking for a pen to see has nothing, no pads, no tampons. He’s fucked. He’s still not used to this and his next doctor’s appointment for blockers is another month away. He’s so fucked.

When the bell rings, he throws his shit into his bag and runs to catch up to Beverly before she slips out for a cigarette like she always does before lunch.

“Bev, my best friend in the entire world,” Richie starts.

Beverly rolls her eyes, “What do you need, Rich?”

“Secret,” he whispers.

She gives him a weird look, but he really does not want to fucking say a word where anyone might be able to hear.

“Come on then, trash mouth,” she replies.

He follows her outside and across the street onto a side street, far from where everyone else goes to smoke during lunch.

She lights her cigarette and takes a deep pull. Not for the first time, Richie wishes he could have just been like her, it would have been easier.

“I’m-“ he starts but hesitates. When she raises her brow at him, he wonders if she _knows_.

Beverly is not stupid. Beverly is perceptive and way too smart to be hanging out with them. She holds out the pack to him and takes a cigarette for himself.

“I need a pad or something,” he says casually, blowing out smoke. “Whatever you have. I forgot to put more in my backpack.”

She nods, not reacting with any hint of surprise. She goes through her bag with her cigarette hanging from her mouth and holds one out for him. He needs to stop underestimating her.

“Thank you,” he says. In any normal situation, he would crack a stupid fucking joke, but honestly, he thinks he might cry.

-

He and Beverly become close.

They’re the ones with shitty parents, who don’t care about when they come in and out of their houses.

“I have this dream a lot,” Beverly says one morning in their hideout in the barrens. She’s laying on the couch, a sketchbook on her lap while Richie’s in the hammock reading an issue of The Uncanny X-Men. It’s a Saturday morning and it’s just the two of them for now; Mike is working on his family’s farm, Ben and Bill are working on a History project before heading down here, Stan is doing Jewish things, and Eddie is getting smothered by his mother until he can get her off her back and leave.

“It feels so real like it actually happened but it’s not possible,” she continues.

Richie’s heart picks up at that, thinking of his own dreams. “What happens in it?”

“My dad, he tries to… you know. But I yell and scream and push him off of me,” she says. “And I smash a brick on his head and he _dies._ It feels like he should still be dead.”

“But he’s not,” Richie replies.

“He’s not,” she repeats, “But he doesn’t touch me anymore. He barely looks at me, as if he’s scared of me now.”

“It feels like we forgot something big,” Richie says. He reaches into his pocket to pull out a pack of Marlboro Reds he managed to steal from the pharmacy. He tosses them at Beverly who just manages to catch them. “I have dreams too.”

“What about?”

“We’re in a house,” he starts. He’s not sure how much he should share but it’s _Beverly_ so he tells her all of it. “Bill and I get separated and I’m trapped in a room that looks like a fucking wake or something. And there’s my body— dress and long hair and tights and shit. And echoing is my old name, over and over again.”

“You’re… transgender right? That’s the word?” When Richie nods she continues, “I did some research after. I didn’t want to say anything wrong. Having periods must suck extra for you.”

“I don’t have them anymore,” he says. “there are these things that stop your hormones from being all stupid and shit and I got put on them to stop the girl shit.”

“Anyway,” she says, changing the subject, “I think Ben is bringing the boombox when he and Bill come, do you have any of those mixes you made? The one with Fleetwood Mac?”

Richie kicks at his backpack, “They’re all in there, my darling Bev.”

“Gross,” she replies. She’s smiling though, the two of them shedding away the heaviness of the conversation.

**2016**

Richie throws up after Mike fucking Hanlon, from Derry, Maine, one of his alleged old friend, calls. It comes flooding back like a deluge, all of the things and people he’s forgotten. He remembers being on the wrong side of a locked door, Bill banging and trying to open it and instead turning around and seeing a room set up as a funeral.

The words that have haunted his dreams for so long were _real_ and he remembers it all now.

He remembers the small man he saw in a Starbucks a few years ago by Penn Station; dressed up in a well-fitted suit, cursing up a storm to whoever he was talking to on the phone but immediately turned kind and soft to the barista who seemed to know him. He was familiar, making his chest ache in a way that he was sure he had never felt before. It made him ache for summers in the woods and loud music on late night drives, a blur of his youth that feels hazy and surreal.

 _Eddie Eddie Eddie, Eds Eds Eds_ his heart thrums out now. He remembers _everything_ , he remembers the years of hiding out in the barrens in their clubhouse, sharing the hammock with Eddie, even when he began to shoot up and Eddie stayed smaller. He remembers Eddie by his side for years, right where he always wanted him.

He’s glad he was in New York when Mike called. His schedule was clear anyway after his last appearance so he tells his manager that there’s an emergency and he needs to go home. To Maine. To Derry.

He rents a car, a cherry-red Mustang. He usually gets sensible cars when he needs to, his need to blend in insatiable. This feels different, as if he’s going towards the end of a story so he gets the flashy fucking car and he puts the top down and blasts _The Queen Is Dead_ like he’s 17 and in love with his best friend and doesn’t know what to do with it all other than drive and drive and drive again.

Moving to the end of this story feels like going back in time. His contacts don’t stop irritating him, forcing him to put on the glasses that he usually just wears at home. When he catches his reflection in the rearview mirror, he feels 13 again, scared of anything and everything but most of all, scared of being honest with himself.

Derry, Maine feels like a town stuck in time.

He gets a room at the one "hotel" in town, where he assumes everyone else is going to stay as well. He splashes water on his face in the bathroom hoping he'll wake up from whatever nightmare he's trapped in that has him back in fucking Derry.

Derry doesn’t feel like home but being at a table with Bill and Stan in the back of a Chinese restaurant does.

He hasn’t seen them in literally 20 years but he easily settles back into the home he’s built in them.

When Eddie walks in Richie feels like he's 16 again, in love with his best friend who won't love him back. He feels like he's 17 and kissed by his best friend who basically tells him he won't love him back. It feels like a downpour of feelings, of _Eddie_. He's 40 fucking years old and he hasn't let go of his first love. Here's this person, who always snapped back at Richie with the same ferocity as he did and could match him quip for quip. He looks the same but older. He's the person he saw in the Starbucks on 32nd and 6th.

"Eddie Spaghetti," he grins. "Eduardo, my-"

"Absolutely fucking not," Eddie replies. 

It feels like home.

They go around the table giving an update on their lives once everyone is there and they're digging into some appetizers.

“I never really left, I mean I went to Bowdoin but moved back after getting my degrees,” Mike says. “I’m the Derry Town Library head librarian. I have a nice little apartment and I do research into Maine’s history for whoever asks.”

“You’re the only one who didn’t leave,” Bill says, voicing everyone’s thoughts.

Mike shrugs, "Someone had to stay. Anyway, Beverly, what have you been up to. You look great."

“I’m a working artist in LA,” Beverly says. "Mostly paintings which have been selling well. It's good, I'm happy."

“I’m an architect,” Ben says. Ben who is now hot and ripped and really, Richie did not expect that to happen. He's nothing like the nerdy fucking butterball a little in love with Beverly. He still has stars in his eyes for her, though. 

“I’m a writer,” Bill says, “I write horror books, one is about to get adapted. I just got divorced a year ago. I was in New York for a while but I moved back to Maine after the divorce, I’m in Bangor.”

“I’m a CPA in Atlanta. Married, happily maybe? I guess?” Stan adds. “It’s a little boring, honestly.”

“I a risk analyst in New York,” Eddie says, “I’m married.” He doesn’t elaborate.

Richie is last. He hesitates for a second, not sure what to say and what to leave out. “I’m a comedian. I do a lot I guess— I’ve been writing for some shows, and I’ll do some voice acting too. I had a Netflix special that apparently didn’t suck. I’m mostly in LA."

**1990**

Being transgender is bad enough, but being gay on top of it is a complication he didn’t expect. Or maybe he should have— the way he has always, _always_ looked at Eddie.

He does what any other kid with a crush and a tape deck would do—he makes him a mixtape.

Or really, he makes himself a mixtape of all the songs he wishes he could give Eddie. They’re not all love songs or something stupid like that, but they’re songs that feel like part of him. He wishes he could give Eddie them. He wishes he could give himself to him.

Richie goes down to the bridge one random night, sneaking off when he's sure his parents are asleep. He makes sure he’s alone, that no one saw him, that one will see him. He takes the switchblade he traded older kid a pack of cigarettes for. He carefully carves the letters into the wood. He leaves again before someone catches him. He’s proud of his work, even if it’s just for him.

**SIDE A**

1\. At The Library - Green Day

2\. Songbird - Fleetwood Mac

3\. Lips Like Sugar - Echo & The Bunnymen

4\. Take A Chance On Me - ABBA

5\. Just Like Heaven - The Cure

6\. Love Will Tear Us Apart - Joy Division

7\. Wish You Were Here - Pink Floyd

**SIDE B**

1\. Mad World - Tears For Fears

2\. Policy of Truth - Depeche Mode

3\. Lovesong - The Cure

4\. Careless Whisper - George Michael

5\. There Is A Light That Never Goes Out - The Smiths

6\. Going To California - Led Zeppelin

7\. Landslide - Fleetwood Mac

**1992**

He’s 16 when he tells them that he’s transgender.

His parents are gone for the weekend, something about the Cape and he was pointedly not invited. They’ve traded in words and backhanded slaps for silence.

They spent the day at the quarry swimming and then in their hideout.

They’ve all managed to steal various forms of alcohol and Richie has a good weed hook up with one of the stoner kids that liked his Joy Division shirt one time, so he has an ounce and some rolling papers ready to go.

“Let’s play truth or dare. Rich, Truth or Dare,” Stan asks.

"Dare," he replies immediately. He hopes it's something easy, like eating cinnamon or taking a shot of a mix of alcohols, _anything_ but streaking.

"I dare you to tell us what you're hiding," Stan finally says. 

This easily could be the stupidest thing he could ever do.

His parents, for all they don’t give a single fuck about him, have been supportive about this. He’s on puberty blockers, there’s the unsaid agreement that he’ll go on testosterone once he can, a day that’s approaching sooner than he realized when he checked the calendar in the kitchen and saw it's just two weeks away.

“I was-” he starts but stops. Beverly slips her hand into his. It makes this infinitely easier, knowing he has her support, knowing she’ll fucking kill any of them if they say anything.

“I was born a girl,” he says, suddenly feeling like he’s in a tunnel or astral projecting out of his damn body, “I’m _not a girl._ I’m transgender I’m a boy. I’m-“

“R-Richie,” Bill says pointedly, snapping him out of whatever spiral he’s beginning to go through. “You’re our friend and we love you. We don’t care about that shit. You’re Richie and our best friend and we’ll do anything for you.” He turns back to everyone else, still staring at Richie with dumb expressions. “ _Right guys?_ ”

It’s easy to tune out Bill’s stuttering. It’s getting better, a lot better but it’s still something that weaving in and out of his speech. But it’s still remarkable when he gets through an entire fucking speech without a single god damn stutter.

“Right,” Mike says, “You’re still Richie who doesn’t shut up ever.”

Stan laughs at that. “I’m more concerned about your fucking motor mouth and the bullshit you spout constantly than about what’s going on in your pants, Tozier.”

If Richie rubs his eyes furiously to hide the fact that he’s tearing up, that’s his own fucking business. He doesn’t miss the fact that Eddie doesn’t say a word. He hopes it doesn’t mean anything and he’s just processing it.

“Beverly Marsh,” Richie says, uncomfortable with this kind of attention laser-focused on him, “Truth or Dare?”

“Truth,” she replies.

“Tell us a secret.”

Beverly smiles like she’s hiding every secret, a red-haired oracle who knows everything going through her extensive catalog before finding something they’re worthy of hearing. “I like girls,” she says honestly.

Richie would die for Beverly Marsh at any time, but especially right now as she takes the attention completely off of him with her own bomb.

Everyone is asleep but him and Beverly, the two of them in the backyard smoking one last joint before bed.

“It’s always weird when you’re speechless,” she says casually when he still hasn’t replied. “I’m so used to you running your mouth like crazy.”

“Fuck off Bev,” he says with a heavy what he hopes is a Cockney accent. “I’ll run me mouth as much as I want when I want.”

“You’re good people, Richie Tozier,” she says after taking a hit and exhaling in his face. “Even if you don’t know it.”

-

Richie's parents drop him off at home after they go to the pharmacy in Bangor that was willing to fill his testosterone prescription. They leave for another weekend away and Richie isn't sure why he's surprised they didn't even mention it.

Eddie is on the porch, waiting for him.

"You're gonna fuck up your injection," Eddie says. It's the first time he's said anything about Richie being transgender since that night. "I'm here to help."

Richie's jaw drops in surprise. He hands Eddie the bag and takes his house key out of his pocket, unlocking the door.

"Eddie Spaghetti, you are the full fucking meal, Parmesan and meatballs and all. Maybe even a cannoli for dessert too. I'm going to eat you right up."

Eddie stares at him. "I don't want to help you anymore."

Richie's anxiety at all of this slips away with Eddie. "I'll be honest with you Eds, I'm fucking nervous and I would love it if you helped."

Eddie doesn't even bitch about the Eds and takes the lead, dragging Richie into his parent's bathroom so they'll have more space. He takes the lead, taking out the vial, the syringe, everything. Richie robotically repeats the instructions the doctor told him, barely processing the words he's saying.

When Eddie gets everything set up he holds out the syringe for Richie. "You should do it," he says, "It's the first time. That's special, right?"

Richie nods, taking it from Eddie. He eyes the spot on his thigh that Eddie cleaned and stabs himself, injecting the testosterone.

"Boy juice," he says solemnly to Eddie.

**2016**

They agree to look for tokens of their pasts in Derry from they faced Pennywise. It sounds like complete bullshit, honestly, when Mike goes into details about some ritual but what part of any of this makes any fucking sense anyway? Richie has way too much fucking anxiety to just roll with the punches but he doesn't know how else to deal with all of this.

They all head back to the hotel they’re staying at. It’s basically empty aside from them, the front desk abandoned.

Beverly hops over the bar and smiles widely at him.

“What’ll it be?” She adds, “I bartended my way through college.”

“An old fashioned,” Richie replies.

She begins looking through everything, grabbing everything she needs to make the drink. As she begins muddling the sugar and bitters she looks up at him.

“I hate that I forgot you all,” she says. “Well, it’s more complicated than that.”

Richie nods, pushing his glasses back. “I saw Eddie once, a couple of years ago. I thought he looked familiar but I didn’t recognize him at all. And you. You've been in LA this whole time.”

“We were best friends,” Beverly says lightly, pouring Jack Daniels into the glass, "And we still ended up so close to each other without knowing."

Richie smiles. “We were. We went through a lot of shit.”

Beverly grabs a second glass. She fills it with a bit of Coke before topping it off with Jack. She hands Richie his glass and grabs her own and they cheers.

“To making it out of this shit hole town,” she says.

“Cheers to that,” he replies, taking a long sip. “Cheers to us finding our stupid way back.”

“So, are you seeing anyone,” Beverly asks.

“No, it never really works out,” he replies.

“Why’s that?”

“No one wants to date the trans dude who is so fucking repressed he can barely stand next to his boyfriend without worrying if it looks like they’re dating.”

“Oh Richie,” she says. Her words aren’t laced with pity, it’s understanding. He never came out to her, or any of them in general in high school but he’s sure she knew anyway. Beverly always knew everything.

“Are you?”

“No, not anymore,” she says, a little sad. She takes a long sip of her drink. “She was a few years younger. She was lovely. I was ‘ _emotionally unavailable_ ’ and she said she couldn’t put up with it anymore. She moved out a few weeks ago.”

“We’re a cautionary tale of sad queers with a fuckload of childhood trauma, Bev.”

She laughs loudly, covering her mouth in surprise. “Let’s take this bottle and sit outside.”

They’re drunk maybe. But considering the magnitude of what lies ahead for them, he thinks they deserve it. The hotel has a small terrace in the back, with a few tables, an ashtray, and trees as far as the eye can see.

Beverly pulls a pack of cigarettes out of nowhere, offering one to Richie. He hasn’t smoked since he was probably 23 but he accepts.

“It feels like we’re 15 again,” she says. “Sneaking off to smoke cigarettes when everyone else is asleep.”

“W-we used to think you guys were h-hooking up,” Bill says coming up behind them. “When you g-guys would s-s-sneak off. Before you c-c-came out, Bev.”

“Disgusting,” Richie replies. “Girls are gross, no offense Bev.”

Beverly shrugs, a knowing smile on her face. “More for me.”

“Join us, Billy, we’re commiserating how shit this all is. Cigarette?”

Bill takes one and sits next to Richie, lighting it and taking a drag. Richie sees the way his hands shake.

He pours more jack into his cup and holds it out for Bill, who downs the whole cup.

“So Bill. Why’d you get divorced,” Beverly asks, her cigarette hanging out of her mouth, her head tipped back and eyes closed.

“Starting with the big question right off the bat, huh Bev?” Richie says.

She rolls her eyes but Bill responds.“We couldn’t get p-pregnant. She said it was o-okay but it was definitely bothering her m-m-more than she said. She began seeing some g-g-g-guy in secret,” he says. Bill takes a long drag of his cigarette. “I don’t b-blame her for any of it, s-s-so was I.”

Richie chokes on his whiskey. “You were seeing a guy in secret?”

“C-can I join the losers’ club s-s-secret queer club now?” he grins.

Beverly chuckles, finally opening her eyes and looking at Bill. “You know what they say, birds of a feather.”

“Bunch of fucked up birdies,” Richie says.

“W-where are you g-g-guys gonna g-g-go t-t-tomorrow,” Bill asks. His stutter is getting worse and worse each second he spends in this shit hole place, Richie realizes.

“Gonna walk down Main Street,” Richie says, “Maybe see if anything is left of the old arcade.”

“The apartment,” Beverly says, suddenly serious. “I had a box of things I hid from my dad in the wall. Hopefully, it’s empty, if not I’ll figure something out. What about you, Bill?”

“D-d-dunno. I might w-w-walk around and s-s-see if anything p-p-pulls me any-any-anywhere.”

There’s a knock on the door that startles them, getting their attention. Stan is in a neat, pressed looking set of deep blue pajamas.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says. “Can I join you guys?”

“Stannis the Mannis,” Richie drawls out with an honest grin on his face, “Sit your pretty face down. Drink? Cigarette? We’re 17 again, anything goes.”

Stan begins to shake his head but he changes his mind. “I’ll take a drink. I’ll head in and take another bottle and grab a glass.”

“This part is nice at least,” Beverly says.

She’s not wrong.

Stan comes back after a few minutes with Ben, Mike, and Eddie in tow.

“Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie says as they approach, “I-“

“Don’t call me that Richie, how many times do I have to tell you.”

“Oh come on Eds,” Richie replies, still knowing how to get under his skin.

“Don’t fucking call me that either,” he replies. His words are harsh but the smile on his face says otherwise.

4 am comes and only Eddie and Richie are left outside.

“This is fucking weird,” Eddie says, sipping on his drink. “Like we’re supposed to fight a fucking clown, again _?_ What the fuck for. I’m pretty sure we barely made it through last time unfuckingscathed.”

Richie hears him but all he can think of are all of the times Eddie had gotten into the passenger side of his old Jeep, immediately bitching about whatever he had playing.

"Did ya miss me, Eds," Richie teases, confidence built in him from each sip of whiskey he's had.

"No," Eddie deadpans. Richie sees the fondness in his eyes, the years of friendship between them. Richie doesn't believe in much, in anything, really. But maybe there is something that brought him and Eddie back together.

 _Yes_ , he hears.

**1993**

Richie scrounges enough money for a car— it’s a shitty red 1883 Jeep Wrangler but it runs and it’s _his._

His favorite part about having the car is when Eddie is in the passenger seat.

Today he’s bitching about the Nirvana album he has blasting. Personally, he thinks _Bleach_ is a sublime album and Eddie is dead fucking wrong about music 90% of the time anyway.

“Seriously Richie. How do you listen to this? it’s just fucking noise,” he complains. “Can’t you listen to real shit?”

Richie grins widely. “Perfect amount of noise so no one can hear me railing your mom.”

“Christ Rich,” he replies. Richie can _hear_ his eyes rolling. Delicious.

“It’s my turn to pick a movie for tonight,” Richie says, turning down _Love Buzz_. “Blockbuster time, Eds.”

“Don’t call me that,” he says instinctively.

Richie heads straight for the horror section. He fucking loves horror movies, loves the thrill of them even if they never seem to actually scare him. He also loves the way Eddie clings to him, scared out of his mind with his hand wrapped around Richie’s wrist and his head hidden against his chest. It’s easy to pretend in moments like that. He’s going to pick horror movies until the end of fucking time if he gets to pretend to have Eddie for two hours.

Eddie trails behind him, complaining the whole way.

“Why do you always pick horror movies?” he asks. “They’re all the same, super fucking formulaic. They suck, Richie. The gore sucks, the story sucks, the acting sucks.”

“I would lay down my life for Nancy Thompson,” Richie says seriously as he grabs _A Nightmare on Elm Street_ off the shelf.

“Didn’t we watch this last time,” Eddie asks, his eyes wide as he stares at the cover.

“Nope,” Richie replies, popping the p, “We watched Halloween last time. Michael Meyers, my dear Edward, not Freddy Kruger.”

“Fuck you for making me sit through a horror movie again,” Eddie says sadly. “I hate it when you pick.”

Richie smiles widely, “You’re just mad you always get scared.”

-

Richie is 17 when Eddie kisses him, drunk off of beers in the clubhouse in the barrens while the rest of their friends run ahead to swim in the lake.

Richie kisses him back. He knows Eddie is going to pull away and say it was a mistake or he’s going to pretend like it never happened, but he wants this one moment to tuck away safely.

“I’m straight,” Eddie says as he pulls away.

Richie pushes him away. He’s not sure what Eddie is trying to imply but all his beer-addled brain can think is that Eddie is kissing him because he sees him as a girl, that he can kiss Richie because he's a girl and that feels like knives cutting through his insides. He grabs his backpack and fucking bolts, leaving Eddie standing at the entrance of the clubhouse with his jaw dropped.

He ends up in a different part of the barrens, where he used to sneak off when his parents disdain manifested in actions instead of silence.

He takes out the tape he made for Eddie when he was 14 and still had hope about anything, popping it in his tape deck, puts on his headphones, and hit play. He lets the songs play through and flips the tape. Once it ends he wipes the tears off his face. He takes the tape and begins ripping it to shreds. Once he’s satisfied he gets up and steps on it for good measure, properly destroying it.

He regrets it for a second, knowing how much love he put into it, how carefully he wrote out the songs, and wrote on the tape but he knows it’s for the best.

**2016**

Everything happens quick, quicker than the jokes Richie learns to fire off to hide himself, quicker than he can even fucking blink.

They all begin at their clubhouse, somehow still standing with remnants of them in it before they split off to face shades of Pennywise alone.

Richie finds an old arcade token in the abandoned arcade where he spent the rest of the summer after fucking Bill, angry and hurt and alone, punched him in the god damn face, remembering fucking Bowers and his gang and how they quite literally tortured the Losers that whole summer as each one of them got picked off by Pennywise.

Giant fucking Paul Bunyan, _Pennywise_ , calling him that fucking _name,_ calling him every slur in the book.

The ritual of Chüd.

The sewers.

The bodies.

That fucking piece of shit _clown_ that he's beaten with a baseball bat at 13 and is ready to do again at 40.

 _Eddie_.

**1997**

Richie finds people like him in New York - gay, trans, traumatized.

It’s weird to have people who understand all of it. He gets adopted by older gay trans men who see him as someone who needs guidance and support.

He goes out — a lot. He drinks and smokes and fucks.

He learns a lot too. He likes kisses and hands running through his curly hair. He likes whiskey, not vodka or god forbid, gin. He likes the bite of Marlboro Reds when he’s drunk but Marlboro Lights when he’s working late on material to submit to different shows hoping to get a job as a writer.

He’s drunk in some fancy apartment in the East Village with a bunch of other queer people around his age. They’re shooting the shit, talking about anything and everything when a girl with red lipstick turns to him and asks him about his first love. The name is on the tip of his tongue but his mouth can’t form the name.

Richie brushes it off, says it doesn’t matter.

He doesn’t know why he can’t remember anything of Derry but he's haunted by it.

**2016**

“We can’t leave him,” Richie growls out. Eddie’s lifeless body feels wrong in his arms. “I’m not leaving him.”

“Richie,” Beverly says delicately, “We have to get out of here, this whole thing is going to collapse. We can’t get trapped here.”

He knows she’s right but that doesn’t make this any easier.

He lets go of Eddie and stands up. He takes a look at his friends. They’re all disgusting, covered in grey water and cuts and bruises and there are varying degrees of visible anguish on everyone’s faces.

He picks up Eddie’s body, bridal style his brain fills in with longing he didn’t know he was capable of. “I’m not leaving his body in some dirty ass fucking clown hole.” He hesitates before adding softly. “He would have hated that.”

No one protests, to his relief.

“I can take him if you need a break,” Ben says. “Just enough for you to get your strength back.”

It’s been a whirlwind of days of them back together but Richie can’t believe how easy it really has been for them to slip back into their habits, to say things without saying them, phrased exactly the right way to not sting.

“Big Ben, my hero,” Richie replies, trying to crack a grin. “I’ll let you know.”

Bill takes point, just like he always had and they fall in line, trying to navigate the twists and turns of the Derry sewer system.

There are so many ways this could end up. They could end up dead in the tunnels. They could come out in the barrens. They could end up finding the well and rope and climb out of the house on Niebolt.

He’s so fucking pissed when it’s that one. He managed to carry Eddie this whole way but having to climb with him is going to be impossible.

He turns to Ben, who takes Eddie’s lifeless body from Richie’s arms and places him on his back.

“I’ll go first,” Ben says, “We’re not going to leave him, Rich.”

Climbing up fucking sucks. Richie thinks of the card attached to his car keys for the LA fitness near his house that’s been ignored since he joined.

He’s 40 and falling apart. He needs to get his shit together. He’s struggling to get up this rope like he’s 11 and in gym class just trying to keep up with the other boys, trying to _be_ like the other boys. 

When he gets out he collapses on the ground breathing heavily until he catches his breath. He gets up and picks up Eddie's body again.

They get out, Eddie’s body still in Richie’s arms. They all sit on the asphalt of Niebolt Street as relieved as they can be surrounding Eddie's lifeless body. The ground begins shaking as part of the town collapses, from the direction Eddie had guessed they were heading when they were in the tunnels.

Eddie gasps for breath, gripping Richie's hand.

**2004**

Richie’s career begins to take off as his personal life collapses into itself over and over again.

He leaves a string of lovers and NDAs on both coasts. He hears echos of their words constantly. He hears all of them wondering why he can’t be honest with himself and everyone else. Hears them reminding him that the world is changing and he can’t hide behind his comedy anymore.

He's not even 30 yet but he knows he’s wasting his life being honest to no one, not even himself.

**2019**

Richie wakes up with Eddie’s small body tucked into his side. Their dog is asleep at the foot of their bed.

He’s 43 and has survived a murderous evil fucking clown creature twice. His career is revitalized after coming out, _twice_ , with his material becoming personal and honest and relatable. He’s watched the love of his life die and come back. He’s watched Eddie pick _him_. He doesn't have to wonder what a timeline would look like if they ended up together because they are.

He’s really fucking okay.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading, any kudos and comments are extremely appreciated.


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